


Weaver

by Neriad13



Series: Explicit One-Shots [7]
Category: Prey (Video Game 2017)
Genre: All aboard the Weird Shit Train, Body Horror, Exhibitionism, F/F, Masturbation, Other, Slight spoilers, Tentacle Sex, Wet Dream, choo choo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 19:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15225810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neriad13/pseuds/Neriad13
Summary: Morgan finds that she has a lot more in common with the Typhon than she thinks.





	Weaver

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fine game for robo-fuckers, but you can't ignore the monster-fucking potential here!

Morgan knew she was dreaming because she was standing at her full height in the middle of a darkened corridor, her hands empty of weapons. Not creeping, not cowering, not huddling in a crawlspace waiting for the slithering footsteps to pass. Standing. Breathing. Her head clear of fear, the nigh-constant buzz of anxiety gone from her ears.

Broken consoles sparked on the blood-splattered walls. Shadows of bodies lay here and there on the floor, all their identifying features hidden, blurred in the way that dreams lessen terrible things witnessed in the waking world. 

As she walked down the empty corridor, her footsteps made not a single sound. Gone was the familiar creak of her suit, the squeak of her soles and the rumble of abandoned machines in the facility below. 

The silence was frightening only when she noticed it. She slowed, her heel scraping the floor with what should have been a prolonged squeak. For a moment, she felt as though she were drifting in the vacuum of space, untethered, without control or propulsion, looking deep into a sea that had no end.

She blinked and the hall was infinite. The same paneling, the same bodies, the same sparks repeating themselves endlessly before her in a space that would never ( _she knew this in the way that things are known in dreams_ ) reach a conclusion. 

The stars shone coldly from its blackest shadows. 

She put a hand to her head and when she opened her eyes, the hall was finite. The exit was in front of her, the door displaying its functionality by the blinking green lights embedded in its metal grid.

Her soul cried out to pass through it, though she knew not what lay beyond. 

It slid open before she was close enough to touch it. As she stepped through the portal, her steps quick and soundless, she _knew_ without looking, that the door had ceased to exist once her body had passed beyond its threshold.

A twinge of trepidation rippled under her skin. It departed just as quick.

The containment chamber of the Vorona-1 towered before her, the diminutive satellite caught, weightless, in its nest of golden threads. As she watched, as transfixed as she had been when she had first stood in this spot, a black shape, swirling with energy, laguidly drifted up from the bottom of the chamber. It ( _No. She._ ) picked through the golden threads as she ascended, her long, slender tendrils playing about them as deftly as a concert violinist might work a bow.

She was beautiful.

Morgan stood there peering inside, as she had done outside of dreams, all concept of time slipping away, the sight of the creature’s work inspiring an ache in her throat and a tear in her eye. 

What was it that had moved her so much on that day? The alien beauty of it all? The strangeness? The wonder of encountering a thing which could not be explained? The first tender words she had ever heard out of her brother’s mouth?

Or was it…

( _No. It’s nothing._ )

She touched the glass, spreading her gloved palm across the smooth surface. 

The Weaver stopped what she was doing and turned to look at her.

_She had no eyes and still, she could see._ Morgan knew this implicitly, in the manner of incontrovertible dream-logic.

Her breath caught in her throat as she approached, her tendrils spreading out against the glass. 

_She would hurt her._ This she also knew, without question, though it made her unbearably sad. 

She put her forehead against the glass, feeling its coolness on her sore eye, wishing and not-wishing that she could be in there together with her. 

Something snapped at her ankle. 

She whirled around in a fright, her hand reaching for the wrench that wasn’t there, her paranoia of every small touch swamping her again in a terrifying wave. 

A mimic skittered away like an insect frightened by the turning of a stone. It retreated a little ways back and in full view, transformed itself into a pile of frayed wires. 

The wrench was in her hand, firm and heavy, made real by a thought. 

She advanced on it, as she had advanced on so many of the little monsters in the station, the weight of her weapon comforting in her hands, her hatred for the things coming back with every step. The blood racing in her veins, she raised her arm to strike and - 

She could feel the heat of the Weaver’s anger on the back of her neck as surely as she could feel the pounding of her own heart. Her hands were empty. She was weary beyond human endurance. She fell to her knees, shivering. 

The mimic chittered curiously and turned back into itself. It poked her knee, jabbing it with its little needle limb. It hurt, but it was not enough to break the skin of her suit.

The thought that it wasn’t trying to kill her seemed the most natural one in the world. 

She reached out, as though she were inviting a cat to make nice with her and with a hop not unlike a very small cat, it jumped up her arm and climbed up to rest on her shoulders. It was so light and insubstantial, and save for the prick of its needle feet, it barely felt as though anything were there. When she reached up to touch it, her fingers plunged through its airy body and tingled with a force that as not quite electric until she withdrew them. 

She rose to her feet, careful not to disturb her passenger and turned to face the Weaver. 

She was drifting imperiously in her enclosure, her tendrils forming complex patterns that changed the moment Morgan tried to focus on them. 

_She was smiling, as only those without facial expressions can._

Morgan tried to smile back at her, but her human face suddenly seemed so cumbersome, so incapable of relaying information in all its true complexity. She tried, straining with the effort, hoping that her pathetic attempt at a message was received.

The Weaver was watching her intently, her tendrils undulating with the flow of a nonexistent wind. 

The mimic chittered on her shoulder. A little black limb poked at her zipper pull, playing with the dangly silver charm, trying to nudge it downwards, but finding no purchase on the smooth metal. She reached up and took the charm between her thumb and forefinger, bringing the game to a halt. 

The Weaver was waiting for something, her impatience growing. She could feel the hum of her anticipation through the glass, feel her trapped longing brushing against the inches that separated them. 

The mimic shifted on her shoulder, in the process accidentally rubbing against her face. A prickle of energy trickled through her jaw, setting the little hairs of her face on end. Its body felt like the feeling of walking through a thick fog. 

The Weaver’s eyeless stare burned into her. Morgan returned it with equal ferocity, heat prickling in her nipples, sweat gathering under her collar.

With a decisive motion, she pulled the zipper open down to her waist. She shrugged herself free of the top half of the space suit, moving slowly and deliberately so as not to throw the mimic off balance. 

Her undershirt was damp and clung to her skin. The mimic deflated and draped itself around her neck when she pulled it over her head and threw it to the floor. Beneath, she wore the sports bra she had chosen from the closet of the apartment-that-was-not-an-apartment on the morning when she had found that her life was not her life. It had seemed a practical choice in the moment, next to the array of subtly elegant and expensive-looking push-ups she’d been presented with as alternate choices. 

But now, she only felt grimy and plain in it. She found herself wishing, ridiculously, that she had made another choice. 

The air was still and cool against her bare skin. Her fists were balled at her sides as she faced the Weaver. She felt imperfect. Misshapen in her eyes. There was so much that this clumsy body couldn’t do, but she was determined to show her what it could accomplish. 

She undid the bra’s fastenings from behind and let it fall to the floor. 

The Weaver squirmed against the glass, her tentacles pulsing with palpable agitation and excitement. 

She picked up a breast in each hand and squeezed them, distorting their shapes. Her dark nipples stood up in the cool air. When she let them go, they fell to her chest, wobbling freely before they settled down again. 

She inhaled sharply when the mimic reached down to touch one. It poked at her right breast playfully, making it move again. The jab of its arm hurt a little, but in a good way. 

Her eyes on the Weaver as she regarded her coolly from her glass prison, she sank to the floor and laid herself down, the metal below her like ice against her bare back. 

The mimic scurried over her chest, hurriedly inspecting whatever it found interesting. Her belly button, the curve of her hips, the warm spaces under her breasts. A small groan escaped her throat as its body brushed her nipple, the tingly sensation it gave off even more intense on her sensitive bits. 

She gasped when it did it again, slower and with purpose. It turned into a flat pane of blackish mist and draped itself over her chest, squeezing her like a tube top. She groaned, squirming on the floor, the sensation at the exact middle point between pain and pleasure.

She reached down, unzipped her suit the rest of the way and slid her hand beneath the thin barrier of her underwear. Her fingers grew wet as she worked. She stared at the Weaver in her golden nest, as she touched herself, imagining her tendrils inside her, embracing her. 

She was startled out of her fantasy by a black shape scurrying about in her peripheral vision. When she turned to face it, another mimic stood there, regarding her curiously. She reached out to touch it and it instead scurried up her hip. For a moment, it perched on her abdomen, birdlike and then, following the movement of her other hand beneath its cotton barrier, thrust a limb beneath her underwear.

A hiss escaped her clenched teeth as it touched her, poking and prodding at her nether bits, hurting and caressing, its body sending crackles of energy into her wherever it touched. 

She withdrew her hand and taking hold of the bunched up fabric around her waist, scooched her suit and underwear down to her knees. The mimic chittered appreciatively as it continued its prodding, unencumbered by the barriers that had once been in the way of doing so. 

She sighed as she laid back, the mimic poking at the sensitive ring of flesh around her opening, now and then dipping into her a little bit before pulling out again. She clenched around its airy leg, feeling its energy for a moment before it pulled out again.

As she peered lazily into the darkness outside the ring of the containment chamber’s light, it came to life. 

A mimic was touching her face. Another slid its arm past her lips. A third wrapped around her stomach, thrumming with power. She looked down to see them gathering around her crotch, poking at her curiously.

She cried out, tears springing to her eyes when all of them thrust into her at once. She could feel the tingle of their individual legs wiggling inside her, pricking her from within, filling her to capacity as more and more of them pushed inside. 

The one on her face took the opportunity to slide a limb down her throat, her gag reflex all but vanished in dreams. It tasted of something sweet and rich and strange; her tongue tingled with contact, her throat opened up to admit it. Its body covered her nose but she found that she could breathe through it easily.

She groaned though the body of the mimic covering her face and spread her legs as wide as she could. It was difficult to go any wider, given that her boots were still on and her suit was tangled about her knees, but she managed a little more without too much discomfort.

The pressure inside her grew as more and more mimics joined in, pulsing as one inside her, moving like a thing with a single will. She was reaching down to touch her clit when she saw a mimic wrapped around her arm like a piece of pulsing onyx jewelry. As she watched, it seemed to melt into her flesh, filling the minute creases of her skin with a delicate network of fine black lace.

Looking up at the Weaver defiantly and shifting her body so that she was certain that she could see, she ran her finger over the hood of her throbbing clit, tracing slow circles across it. She sighed as she pressed her thighs around the pulsing mass between them, rocking her hips to better feel them moving inside her before relaxing against the floor again. 

The back of her neck was drenched with sweat. She could feel her hair clinging to it, feel herself drifting into the dreamy state that she fell into whenever she was about to have an orgasm. 

The Weaver loomed over her, an implacable smugness in its fluid motions. Morgan reached out with her free hand to touch the bottom of the glass and saw that her fingers were interwoven with a dark network of gossamer filaments. They traveled through the lines of her nail beds, filled the tiny gaps of her pores. They vibrated to the beat of her heart, making her skin tingle and her hair stand up.

The orgasm crept up on her, soft and slow as she traced her lazy circles, as the mimics squirmed inside her, bumping her fingers now and again. As it built in intensity, overwhelming every one of her senses, she screamed silently into the formless mass in her throat, thrusting her tongue against it to no avail, arching her back against the cold floor. She had barely caught her breath when another one came on, harder and faster than the first. The third brought tears to her eyes. In the midst of the fourth, she struggled to open her eyes and look at the space between her legs. 

The mimics were gone. Golden filaments oozed out of her vagina with every involuntary clench of her muscles. She sobbed as they grew and tried to stop them with her hand. But they spurted through her fingers in great clouds, wrapping her like another skin, shrouding her in light, whispering, their voices all piled on top of one another, as they touched her. 

Finally, her body slowed to a halt. She laid down, exhausted, her chest heaving, her sore eye throbbing in its socket. 

The containment chamber was gone. The Weaver floated free, her tendrils rippling gently, like seaweed in the bottom of a murky lake. They were cool when she touched her, caressing her burning body, soothing her like a lost child.

Wrapping around her throat. 

She did not fight her as she squeezed, as her powerful tendrils wrapped around her limbs and bound her to the ground. As her beautiful body settled on top of her, an immovable, solid weight.

She looked on only with sadness, as though she were watching from far away, knowing in her heart that the creatures bore no malice, that they did not hurt out of a sense of vengeance or justice or honor or anything resembling a human’s drive.

She was prey and they, predators.

She closed her eyes and gave herself up.

***

She surfaced from the dream like a swimmer reaching for the surface, flailing through the layers of consciousness, struggling to reach the air.

When she opened her eyes, she had no idea where she was. Something was digging into her neck and her back ached from the odd position it had been twisted into. She could feel the dampness of her underwear through her suit and feeling of having been touched there lingered.

Around her, there was nothing but darkness and the faint glow of an exit sign. Clumsily, her mind still spinning in the place between dreams and reality, she tried to sit up and promptly cracked her head against the underside of a hard surface. 

It all came rushing back then. The lab, the barricades she’d set up, the makeshift bed under the workbench, the intent she’d had to get a few hours of sleep before she plunged any deeper into Psychotronics. 

She sank back down into her canvas bedding, rubbing her head and staring up at the underside of the table above her. The collar of her suit was tight around her throat. It was not a garment designed for sleeping in, but she never felt safe enough to take it off.

She reached up and pulled the zipper down a little bit, to take the pressure off the back of her neck. 

The details of the dream were slipping away like water through a sieve, but the feelings remained. The impossible longing, tinged with fear. The ache in her chest at some loss that she couldn’t quite recall. The throb in her groin that still bothered her.

She pulled the zipper down the rest of the way and freed one of her arms from its sleeve. She was already slick when she slid her fingers beneath her underwear and it felt good to move them about with no particular goal in mind. 

She sighed, visions of golden filaments drifting across her vision when she closed her eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Typhon physiology...is weird. 
> 
> Even weirder if you stick a typhon mind in a human body and then try to get both conceptions of physiology to agree.


End file.
